


Lockin' Lips (With a Killer Queen)

by punklexa



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-06
Updated: 2014-12-06
Packaged: 2018-02-28 07:58:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2724710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punklexa/pseuds/punklexa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After sneaking into Queen Abaddon's palace with the intent to steal, Bela is caught by the guards and brought before the Queen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lockin' Lips (With a Killer Queen)

Bela crouches in the foliage, watching the palace from afar.

The enormous stone building is heavily guarded; at the main entrance, although Bela cannot see them, a small group of guards, clad in armor, stand watch. Similar measures are dispatched at various points along each of the walls of the palace, nearly hidden in the darkness but for the occasional glint of moonlight on their armor.

Bela, although she faces only the eastern wall, knows the guards are there. She has been making nightly visits to the palace for a week, gauging its defenses, carefully noting its weaknesses. The guards change shifts at roughly the same time every night – first the back wall, then the two sides, with the eastern first, and finally the guards at the entrance. This process starts when the moon hits its highest point in the sky – and this is what Bela is so breathlessly awaiting.

A breeze blows, caressing Bela's face beneath her cloak and rusting the leaves of her hiding place. She instantly slips her face behind the tree's trunk, then stiffens. These guards are skilled – aware of the slightest movement or sign of danger.

There are a few footsteps, distant, from beyond the tree, and a light jangling of metal. A guard is coming her way, or so it sounds, her eyes frozen to the tree bark in front of her.

The guard takes a few more steps, and Bela can almost smell his ale-tainted breath. He's just a few steps away.

Then another man's voice stops him.

“Stop, Barbas! There's nothing there, you fool.”

Then another voice, raspier and dangerously near. “I saw somethin' movin, Sitri. The Queen'll have our heads-”

“It was the wind. Or an animal. Anyhow, anyone with half a mind would've already run.” The voice pauses. “Besides, look at the moon – it's about time to change shifts anyhow.”

Barbas retreats from Bela, footsteps getting softer as he leaves. Their conversation turns to indistinct murmuring, and when she hears them heading back towards the entrance, Bela glances forwards at the now undefended wall. Then she hastily runs across the grass towards it, painfully aware of each crunch of plants beneath her feet.

She bends down, her black cloak draping over her form. Near the ground, there is a patch of bricks, one of which she begins to pull on.

She noticed these bricks a couple days ago during one of her visits. At first glance, especially at night, they seem to fit into the wall normally, but the gradual weakening of the mortar has loosened them. There are mazes of cracks, too, clawing from the damp ground until a few feet up the wall. The perfect hidden entrance. Hopefully, the decay has reached the second layer of bricks, as well.

Bela considers using her knife, hidden in one of her leather boots, but quickly decides against it. The metal would scrape, harshly and loudly, and Bela needs silence. She grips the edge of a brick, then pulls. As predicted, the stone easily withdraws from the wall. Bela drops it to the side, then grabs another. With this brick comes one attached to its bottom edge.

For a few moments Bela works hastily but tensely, removing the bricks with hands trembling. She carefully places them alongside one another, but never stacking them. The soft plop of a brick falling on the grass is much safer than the angry clank of one hitting another, however gently.

Bela hears footsteps. The other guards are near – based on the sound, about to turn the corner from the entrance. Bela speeds up. The first layer has already been removed, revealing another mass of similarly, although slightly less, damaged bricks. She tugs at a few at once, shoving them hastily behind her. There's a clash as the bricks slam into the accumulated pile.

The footsteps get closer. In one final, desperate move, Bela grabs a pair of bricks with both hands and slams them backwards. A cluster of bricks clatter angrily to the ground and the pile with them. Finally, there's a hole wide enough to fit through.

Bela slips into it. As she does, a ragged stone edge snags on the bottom of her cloak. The guards' voices are audible now, raucous and joking, almost drunken.

Bela grabs a handful of the cloak and tugs it. The fabric tears thunderously. It rips free, leaving a piece behind.

And now Bela's running.

The hallway she's gotten into is dimly lit, with the occasional torch along either side. As she runs, Bela lets a repetitive mantra repeat in her head: _Almost there. Almost there._ She has to be – of course the valuables would be hidden here, in the back of the castle. It's the farthest from the entrance and the most impossible to reach. If she could just _get there_ (if there are guards, she thinks, she'll deal with them when she arrives), if the other guards don't sound an alarm about the conspicuous chunk of missing bricks and patch of fabric, she'll be fine. If she isn't captured, she'll be fine.

After a while, the hall gets darker and more decrepit. Cracks decorate the walls, coating them almost as thickly as the spiderwebs, old and new, that cling in the crevices.  _Maybe it's a dead end,_ she finally thinks.  _Surely a queen would keep the pathway to her treasures better-maintained._ Then again, that's the exact thinking that would deter most thieves. But Bela isn't an ordinary thief. That's what she prides herself on – being a  _great_ thief.

And getting away with this would make her more than a great thief. She's spent enough time on petty crime. Never from peasants, people like the self she presents and the person she was. Those people don't deserve to be stolen from, she thinks; they have it hard enough, with the tough luck of being born into the inescapable rut of poverty. She takes from the ones who haven't earned what they have: vain, self-obsessed nobles, dukes and duchesses. The ones born into the right family by chance and taking the opportunity to grind others further into the ground.

Never before has she taken from a queen. Few thieves try, and those who do are often hanged or taken to the guillotine. But this opportunity is too rare to pass up – a palace guarded weakly enough for Bela to infiltrate.

At length, the hallway begins to have a cleaner appearance. There are torches every few feet, and Bela picks up her speed. She's getting close. Maybe not to a hoard of gold and jewels, but definitely to  _something_ .

The hall stops without warning, leading into a sharp passageway to the right. Bela pauses, leans downward and withdraws her knife from her boot. She lets her cloak and the long sleeve of her top conceal it. Then she flattens herself to the wall and peers out.

Two guards, with sheathed swords at their waists, are stationed in front of an enormous oak door.

Bela steps into the corridor, in front of the knights. Both rapidly withdraw their swords, pointing them towards Bela. The weapons flicker dangerously in the torches' light.

“How did you get here,” the guard on the right demands, commanding rather than asking. “Who are you.”

“I – I am,” Bela begins, tentatively reaching upwards with her knife-less hand and lowering her hood. These men may be swayed by beauty, and Bela is unabashed about using her own to get what she wants. If one is daft enough to believe another on the basis of beauty alone, anyway, that person deserves to be lied to. She locks eyes intermittently with each man – well, with where their eyes are underneath their helmets – as she continues. “I'm a new handmaiden of the Queen. She's sent me down here to fetch a few things.”

The men don't lower their swords.

“What's the password?” the knight on the left mutters.

“Password?” Bela lowers her eyes, then lifts them again at the guards, molding her face into the most bashful expression she can.

“Queen Abaddon don't let anyone down here without a password.”

The other guard adds, clearly swayed, “Just a safety precaution, nothing personal. To make sure nobody's tryin' to steal.”

“I – I must have forgotten it,” Bela replies. “I'm sure she told me, it's just – bad memory, you know -”

“Go ask her for it. Then come back.”

Bela changes her expression, allowing a tint of fear to show. “I, uh, I'm sure you can let me through this once,” she stutters. “I'd rather not be a nuisance to her. Surely one time won't hurt.”

Slowly, the knight on the left lowers his weapon. The other tentatively follows.

“Fine,” he says, with a glance to the other. “You are the Queen's personal servant, after all. Come here.”

As Bela approaches, Knight One chooses a glistening silver key from the ring of them hanging at his belt. Bela has to fight down her excitement – she's almost gotten away with stealing from the Queen. The Queen's treasure hoard is almost in her hands; just a few pieces from there and she'll be set for -

Knight Two grabs Bela, gripping her shoulder with one hand and holding his sword to her throat with the other. Knight One whips the knife from her hand,

“W- What are you doing?” Bela asks.

Knight One ignores her.

“Let's take her to the Queen.”

 

The guards thrust Bela roughly onto her knees on the floor of the throne room.

Next they kneel themselves, seemingly unwilling to even meet the Queen's eyes. Bela follows their gaze, casting her eyes down to the rich red carpet beneath her.

Bela has heard rumors about Abaddon. Some, of course, are clearly false: that the Queen's hair is made of pure fire, flickering and burning away on her head. That she isn't human – that she's a demon, taking advantage of a queen's power to gain more followers. But others, as Bela listens to Abaddon, seem possible. That she punishes her servants with the guillotine for minor transgressions. That she feasts not on typical cuisine, but on the hearts of disobedient men. That she is cruel, vicious, even superhumanly wicked.

Abaddon's voice, dignified but not aristocratic, indicates that any of these rumors could be true. The voice is like a beautifully-crafted dagger, like standing a little too close to the fire on a freezing day. It makes Bela tremble, even without seeing the woman.

“Who is this girl?”

“A thief, Your Highness,” begins one knight. “She was trying to steal from your vault. She told us she was your handmaiden.”

Bela can hear carefully-controlled anger the next time Abaddon speaks. “How did she get there?”

“I don't know, Your Majesty.”

Abaddon then questions the other knight. “Do you?”  
“N-no, Your Highness.”

There's a quiet second, weighty with the fear of the men and the power of the Queen. Bela can see the knights, bowing submissively, shaking in her peripheral vision. Eventually Abaddon says, “Very well. I'll punish you and the rest of the guards later for your incompetence. You may leave.”

In the few moments of quiet after the knights depart, Bela remains on her knees, scrutinizing the floor. She can feel Abaddon's presence, sitting on her throne, but the Queen remains silent.

_If I survive this,_ Bela thinks,  _I'm going back to robbing nobles._

“You can look at me, you know,” Abaddon finally says. “I promise you won't turn to stone. And, please, stand up.”

Shakily, Bela stands, almost laughing at the quip but bidding herself make no sound. Once on her feet, she first takes in the room around her – lavishly decorated with ornate tapestries, illustrating fantastical and realistic battles. The dark stone walls ascend upwards seemingly indefinitely, lit at intervals by wavering candle flame. The red carpet on which she stands leads to the throne, and she allows her eyes to follow it. To the stairs leading to the throne, coated also by the same thick, scarlet material. To the legs of the golden throne, curved into the shape of lions' paws.

Finally, she lets herself look upon the Queen. And she is more than the legends.

The woman is dressed in a pale blue dress, low-cut and undecorated, revealing a generous amount of decolletage. The simple clothing somehow suits her air of power more fittingly than a typical royal gown of dark red or purple; those gowns are heavy and thick, burdensome, but this one is thin and light. She wears pointed heels, vibrant and aggressively red in color. Her hair is a fiery shade of red Bela has never seen before; it cascades loosely past her shoulders, accentuating her beauty even more so than the jewelled crown on Her Majesty's head.

But her face is the most stunning feature of all. Sapphire eyes gaze confidently at Bela, enchanting but disarming, making her feel exposed even under the modesty of her cloak. Her brows are arched sharply. Bela notices, too, Abaddon's lips, painted the same red as her shoes. Bela finds herself wanting-

“You were trying to steal from me. So I'm told. Care to explain?”

“Your Majesty,” Bela says, and maybe she's stuttering because she just got caught, maybe because this woman is practically a goddess, maybe some of both. God, she's just as daft as the men she's tricked. “I – I have children, sick children, and I can't afford -”

Abaddon slowly shakes her head, shiny lips turning into a smirk. “Lying won't get you anywhere if you want mercy, thief.”

“I'm not lying,” she responds instinctively. “I -”

“You are.” Then Abaddon stands, getting fluidly off the throne, looking daringly at Bela. “Maybe this way it'll be a little easier to get the truth out of you.”

She descends easily down the stairs, eyes locked on Bela the entire time. Bela tries and fails to slow the quickening of her heart as Abaddon approaches.

“You know the punishment for thievery, don't you?”Abaddon whispers, just a few inches from Bela. Bela's cheeks burn. Abaddon looks like she'd naturally be an inch or two taller than Bela, but with these heels, she's even taller, forcing Bela to look up to her. “You could lose a hand, or both, just for taking from another peasant. And taking from me – from your  _Queen_ – well.”

Abaddon smiles. “I could do whatever I wanted to you.”

Then she says, “Take that cloak off. It's repulsive.”

Trembling, trying to ignore the heat pulsing throughout her body, Bela reaches to her throat and undoes the cloak's clasp. The garment falls unceremoniously to the floor, and a gust of wind chills through the rest of her clothing. Nevertheless, Bela feels warm.

Abaddon continues walking, drawing out a prolonged circle around Bela. She remains agonizingly close to her. “You risked the guillotine to steal from me.”

Reaching the lump of cloak on the floor, she kicks it apathetically aside. Bela can feel Abaddon's unwavering eyes on her, scouring every pour, scrutinizing every inch of her form. She walks slowly, leisurely, as if taking the time to appreciate a beautiful statue. “And you got so close, too. I'll bet that stings.”

She has completed a revolution, and now stands in front of Bela again, unashamedly raking her eyes down Bela's body. Bela feels even more exposed.

“What's your name?” Abaddon asks.

“Bela.”

Abaddon repeats it, and the name sounds incredibly rich, like expensive wine, coming from Abaddon's lips. “It took a lot of guts for you to sneak in here tonight. That means you're either incredibly stupid or incredibly brave.”

“Why steal from  _me_ ? Why not someone else – a noble, or another peasant?”

“That doesn't matter, Your Highness,” Bela retorts. “I stole from you, and now you're going to have me killed. That's what matters.”

“Oh, but it does mater,” Abaddon says. “And who knows - maybe I'll have mercy on you if you cooperate.”

“Well, if you  _must_ know. People like you have – too much.” She pauses, trying to analyze Abaddon's unreadable face. “You just inherit piles of money, and spend it all on feasts for yourselves. Meanwhile, the rest of the goddamn kingdom is starving. Maybe I'm evening out life's inequalities.”

“That's a bit of a generalization,” Abaddon says, expression still eerily blank, “but interesting. Principled. I like it.”

Abaddon's hand comes up, strokes Bela's cheek, and wipes away a strand of hair from her vision. “Do you know why it was so easy for you to break in?”

Her mouth curls into a predatory smile. “I've been hearing about you, Bela. The cleverest thief of them all, that's what they're saying. They thought at first all those robberies weren't connected. But they are, aren't they?”

“The Winchesters' weapons. That legendary rabbit foot. They were all done so well. I couldn't believe it when my guards told me they'd seen someone lurking around my palace; if there was even the slightest chance it was you, I wanted to meet you. So I made sure you'd get in.”

“Th- those bricks,” Bela breathes. “The guards. You -”

“You're strong, Bela. Strong-willed. Like me. And I could really use someone with your cunning.”

“What do you mean?” Bela asks. “Your Majesty,” she adds.

“There's no need for that title. For now, at least,” Abaddon whispers. “I'm saying, you're exactly what I need. Strong, smart – beautiful. Together, we could do so much. We could take down the  _real_ tyrants.” 

“I'd like to think I'm not like those people you mentioned, Bela. And hopefully I'm not. But I know someone who definitely is.” Abaddon's hand slides down Bela's neck to rest on her shoulder. “He's been a thorn in my side, and his people's, for far too long. And we could do the same to him, with your skills.”

Bela's mind is whirling. First, Abaddon wants to punish her – but now, she's what – flirting? Offering some kind of partnership? Her mouth gapes wordlessly.

“Or, you know,” Abaddon says, straightening, “I could always inform the executioner that -”

Finally, Bela's brain manages to send words to her mouth. “I don't think that will be necessary.”

“Good.” Abaddon grins brilliantly. “So, what do you say we partner up? Give that bastard Crowley a taste of his own medicine?”

“That sounds wonderful,” Bela replies. “I'd love to work with you, Abaddon.”

 


End file.
